


Dim The Lights (Tango Just For Two)

by andlightplay



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blow Jobs, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Face-Sitting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 03:28:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20735495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andlightplay/pseuds/andlightplay
Summary: Crowley finishes his glass with an appreciative sigh and sets it down, sprawling back into the sofa cushions and crooking one leg up onto the seat, hidden eyes on Aziraphale. Aziraphale meets his gaze innocently, even as Crowley’s necktie somehow comes undone and slithers off his neck. Crowley flicks a finger, and Aziraphale’s topmost waistcoat button pops free.Aziraphale glances down at it, surprised. Crowley does the second. “I thought you might go for the bowtie,” Aziraphale says, feeling the third button come free.“Mmm,” Crowley answers lazily, no real answer at all, but the side of his mouth curls up. “Did you now.”The bowtie falls open, as does the collar of Aziraphale’s shirt.“Oh, really,” Aziraphale says, abandoning his own glass, and leans over to kiss him.





	Dim The Lights (Tango Just For Two)

**Author's Note:**

> Finally got something finished! This is actually the first fic I started writing in this fandom, and it's ended up with several of my headcanons woven into it, kind of a mission statement if you will. I also, as I was writing it, realised that I hadn't used any of the ~naughty words~ for so long that when I did it felt weird, so this fic was a lil experiment in going back to my teenage roots and writing porn without any specific anatomical descriptors. As is now hallowed tradition, the title is from "Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy" by Queen, which I'm absolutely certain has experienced some kind of bump in streams since the show aired and is probably baffling analysts somewhere.

When they left the restaurant Crowley had put a hand lightly on Aziraphale’s lower back, and Aziraphale had let their arms and shoulders brush as they walked to the Bentley, a metaphysical wing arcing up once again over Crowley’s head, insubstantial feathers whispering across the nape of his neck. Crowley kept a hand on the gear stick as they drove so that his knuckles kept knocking against the knee Aziraphale had obligingly pressed close (the car ignored most of what he was doing, as it certainly wasn’t conducive to normal driving).

“Nightcap?” Crowley asked when they arrived back at his flat, leaning casually over the roof, and Aziraphale smiled.

“Certainly, dear fellow.”

Crowley did actually get them a drink while Aziraphale took off his coat and shoes and then they sat on the sofa, not quite close enough to touch, and chatted about this and that while Aziraphale’s sleeves found themselves rolling up to his elbows and Crowley’s boots disappeared from his feet and joined Aziraphale’s shoes by the door.

Crowley finishes his glass with an appreciative sigh and sets it down, sprawling back into the sofa cushions and crooking one leg up onto the seat, hidden eyes on Aziraphale. Aziraphale meets his gaze innocently, even as Crowley’s necktie somehow comes undone and slithers off his neck. Crowley flicks a finger, and Aziraphale’s topmost waistcoat button pops free.

Aziraphale glances down at it, surprised. Crowley does the second. “I thought you might go for the bowtie,” Aziraphale says, feeling the third button come free.

“Mmm,” Crowley answers lazily, no real answer at all, but the side of his mouth curls up. “Did you now.”

The bowtie falls open, as does the collar of Aziraphale’s shirt.

“Oh, really,” Aziraphale says, abandoning his own glass, and leans over to kiss him.

A moment later, Crowley’s jacket is draped neatly over the back of the sofa.

Aziraphale fits perfectly into the spread of Crowley’s thighs and the bent leg quickly wraps itself around his, joined by the other. He doesn’t notice precisely when the sunglasses vanish, but when Aziraphale next pulls away enough to breathe they’re gone and Crowley’s looking back at him properly, pupils eating up the yellow of his eyes.

At some point Crowley must finish unbuttoning the waistcoat because he gets his hands underneath it with no problem, sweeps them over Aziraphale’s back and down his spine, lingering a little on his arse and then down over his thighs. Aziraphale leans into it like a cat, humming approvingly into the kiss, and Crowley unravels his legs so that Aziraphale can straddle him and Crowley can get a nice firm grip of his thighs. For his part, Aziraphale has his hands up under Crowley’s shirt, hot on his skin, smoothing up over his chest and down over his stomach, fingertips always grazing his nipples and then slipping away again.

Crowley finds himself undulating between sensations, shoulders pushing him up into Aziraphale’s hands every time he catches a nipple and hips arching into the solid weight of Aziraphale’s body afterwards, chasing friction that isn’t quite there. Certainly Aziraphale is enjoying himself, making all those familiar and maddening little noises of pleasure that Crowley came to know and suffer through in various dining establishments centuries before they got round to this method of eliciting them, but he still hasn’t got into the habit of assigning himself the full suite of human sex characteristics as a default.

Crowley tries his best, doing all the things that Aziraphale particularly likes (and getting even more of those delicious noises in the process), but eventually he gives up and pushes Aziraphale to sit back back, just a little, hands spanned high up his thighs and framing the perfectly smooth fabric between them. “Oh come on, angel, make an effort.”

“Oh, is this one of those times?” Aziraphale asks breathlessly, the flush in his cheeks and his dishevelled curls making him look disarmingly cherubic. “You should have said.”

“I would have thought it was obvious,” Crowley says pointedly, shifting his hips, and Aziraphale resettles himself with a little wriggle that has Crowley’s fingers flexing around his thighs.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale says, doing it again to hear Crowley hiss. “Yes my dear, I suppose that _is_ obvious. Very well. Although it will rather ruin the line of my trousers.”

Crowley, whose trousers merely follow the lines of his legs - tightly enough to leave very little to the imagination, particularly at present - rolls his eyes. “I can assure you I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Ah, well in that case,” Aziraphale says, perfectly amiable but for the glitter of his eyes, and scrunches them shut, tongue peeking between his teeth.

A moment later, true to his prediction, the line of his trousers is rather disrupted.

“_Finally_,” Crowley mutters, and does something sinuous and flexible that pushes Aziraphale to the other end of the sofa with Crowley in his lap, head-first. “I don’t know why you don’t just keep it all the time, now that we have this,” he adds, muffled.

“Good tailoring should not be-” Aziraphale starts primly, and then has to stop because Crowley’s breath is warm and his eyes are heavy-lidded and one of his hands is back around Aziraphale’s thigh. “Nnn, yes, alright, but really, it’s not as though we _always_-”

Crowley manages, somehow, to nuzzle in closer, and Aziraphale threads a hand into his hair and stops talking. Crowley hums, smug, which feels quite delightful even through the material of his trousers. “Show you a trick, angel,” he offers a few minutes later, lifting his head slightly, and Aziraphale makes an intrigued and somewhat breathy noise in response. Crowley grins, and leans back in again; a moment later Aziraphale feels the fabric tug, and realises Crowley’s unfastening his trousers with his teeth.

As always, Crowley can’t resist the temptation to feel the silk of Aziraphale’s underwear against his skin, brushing nose and cheek and mouth against it while Aziraphale’s hand tightens in his hair. He ends up with his lips pressed to Aziraphale’s stomach, right where silk gives away to skin. His eyes flick up, molten amber framing his huge dark pupils.

“Would you like a written invitation this time?” Aziraphale huffs, and feels Crowley smile, the brief edge of his teeth.

“Oh, I’d hang it on the wall,” he promises, and then, finally, slithers downwards.

The pleased noise Aziraphale makes in response wobbles a bit in the middle, but he restrains himself to only a small shift of his hips, and a conscious relaxing of the hand in Crowley’s hair. He always forgets how delightfully responsive his body becomes when he makes the effort to fully engage with human biology, which means that every time reminds him anew. Crowley’s got both arms wrapped around his thighs though, keeping him mostly still, and Aziraphale keeps his other arm curled firmly up behind him, gripping one of the cushions propping his head and shoulders up. He does like to cup a hand on Crowley’s cheek, his jaw, as much for the inherent tenderness of the gesture as to feel his mouth working from the outside as well, but contents himself this time with the hand in his hair, stroking steadily through and pausing every now and then to grab appreciatively at a handful and tug.

“Dearest,” he says eventually, and Crowley’s eyes open lazily to meet his, the colour of burnt amber and other things smouldering. “If you had other plans for tonight, then you should probably-” Crowley does something perfectly sinful with his tongue, and Aziraphale loses the words. “You- ohhh, do that again, ah, _Crowley_-”

Crowley blinks at him the way that predators do, slow and deliberate and full of intent, and clearly has no intention of stopping. Aziraphale closes his own eyes, the better to enjoy the sensations; the heat of Crowley’s mouth, the searing curl of his tongue, the urgency building under his skin. He presses his head back into the cushions, lets his hips follow the draw of Crowley’s mouth, lets his hand fall to the back of Crowley’s head so he can set his palm against it, direct him just right. Crowley moves with him willingly, pliant and intent, and it’s that as much as anything else he’s doing that causes the wave that is Aziraphale to crest and break, spilling and surging towards the waiting shore.

Crowley tidies everything away, re-fastens every button and closes every zip, and then crawls up to take Aziraphale’s mouth, kissing him hungrily, one hand on his face and the other clutching at his shirt. It jumps from the open collar to his lower ribs to to the sadly-rumpled hem, fingers grazing his stomach, and Aziraphale bites at Crowley’s lower lip and second-guesses him; puts a hand on his hip, squeezes, and slips it around and down between them.

Crowley breaks the kiss to gasp out a breath, arching into the touch, hand clamping down around Aziraphale’s wrist. “Yeah, just- that’s absolutely perfect, don’t move, fuck-”

“Sweeting,” Aziraphale says gently, disengaging and immediately catching Crowley’s hand so that he doesn’t move to touch himself, “I have a better idea.”

Crowley whines, dropping his forehead down onto Aziraphale’s shoulder with a thud. “You don’t _need_ a better idea, angel, I am _this_ close-”

“And that’s wonderfully flattering dearest, but really, I’d quite like you to come up here. You’ll have to take your trousers off, of course, but...”

Crowley lifts his head. “Wait. Fuck. Are you-?”

Aziraphale wriggles himself deeper into the cushions, making sure that his head and neck are fully supported, and then pats invitingly at his shoulders, looking extremely pleased with himself. “_Yes_ dear, now do come along.”

Crowley makes a strangled noise. “Ngk. I- yeah, okay, _fuck_, but can I...do you mind if I sssslip into something more comfortable?”

“Not at all.”

Crowley takes a deep breath and sits up, raises a hand, and brings it down sharply in front of himself, snapping his fingers. He exhales, shifting his hips, and then scrambles off Aziraphale and onto his feet, fumbling at his jeans, which are now leaving somewhat more to the imagination than they were earlier. Certainly when he strips them off, what’s revealed (apart from his disinclination to wearing underwear) is the looseness of his own attachment to human gender characteristics, although where Aziraphale is inclined to disinterest, Crowley leans more towards a mix-and-match approach.

He swings one lean leg back over Aziraphale’s chest, and Aziraphale immediately closes a hand around his thigh, thumb sweeping over the skin. He does the same with the other leg, palms sliding up until they’re resting right at the apex of Crowley’s thighs, fingers spread appreciatively over his arse, which he squeezes. Crowley huffs, amused, and arches into it, then shifts himself a little further forwards, a question. Aziraphale hums in answer, turning his head to press a kiss to the sensitive inside of Crowley’s thigh and then nosing further, provoking a highly undignified noise.

“_Okay_ angel, I’m just-” Aziraphale raises his eyebrows, and Crowley hisses, beyond words, and rolls his hips down.

Aziraphale’s hands are strong and warm, keeping Crowley spread open like a book so he can fully concentrate on his work. He’s making those appreciative noises again, felt as well as heard, and really, what can Crowley do but pant and swear and surrender to it all. He sinks his knees into the cushions and his nails into the sofa back and almost closes his eyes, and lets himself give in and just chase the soft heat of Aziraphale’s mouth, lets Aziraphale have his fill.

“Hnnngh,” he says eventually, when they are both satiated, and flops backwards, head ending up cradled between Aziraphale’s shins.

“Mmm,” Aziraphale agrees, the familiar and deeply satisfied sound he makes when he is fully replete. Crowley is staring vaguely up at the ceiling, but he knows Aziraphale is running his tongue over his lips, savouring the last of the taste, and delicately wiping his mouth clean. It’s a marvellous image, but Crowley is far too boneless to do anything with it, and beside, the afterglow is there to be basked in. He is a snake, after all. “Now, wasn’t that a better idea?”

“Certainly was. Bloody marvellous. Have to do it again sometime.”

Aziraphale laughs, one of the hands still loosely curled around Crowley’s thighs running lightly up and back down. “Just say the word.”

“Ngh. Honestly angel, you’re going to discorporate me one of these days.”

Aziraphale’s mouth finds his ankle, presses a kiss to the bone. “Oh, I certainly hope not, my dear.”

“Nah,” Crowley says, a moment later. “Welcome to try, though. But you’re stuck with me.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says serenely. “I know.”


End file.
